


The wonders of Fridays

by nonamebutdrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But listen it actually makes sense in a way, Fluff, Harry is the cook, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonamebutdrarry/pseuds/nonamebutdrarry
Summary: “He couldn’t even formulate proper thoughts or words because his stomach was twisting and Draco wanted to die rather than acknowledge how soft he was feeling for the stupid fuckwit sitting on top of his kitchen island.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





	The wonders of Fridays

As a child, Draco never quite grasped the concept of “favourite” things. What a bizarre way to perceive the world. As if it was full of lovely butterflies and you had the good fortune of choosing a loveliest one. The world, as dear Father had showed him early on in his childhood, bore no resemblance to this utter delusion. It was dreadfully atrocious and horridly cruel, it was full of wickedness and injustice and hell seemed like heaven when you compared it to life. And Draco, even 10 year old Draco, knew that life would wreck him in pieces if he stopped and wondered a minute what was loveliest to him, or even, _favourite_.

How pathetically dramatic. Draco was allowed to laugh about it now, because he was indeed rather dramatic. But on the other hand, he was a hormonal child whose daddy issues were so flagrant he hadn’t questioned his father’s sayings even once in his life. Besides, all of that was way back then. 

All of that was before he met Harry sodding Potter.

20 year old-Draco held a very detailed list inside his brain, a list consisting of all-time favourites of his.

Favourite weather? Those rainy days when the air is bitterly cold and when the amount of raindrops each second is small enough to feel every single one of them hitting the glass of the window.

Favourite food? Quite honestly, anything sweet fitted in the list. But if he had to go into detail, he most definitely would’ve said pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes. Especially when they were baked by Harry (not that he would’ve ever admitted it to his face, obviously).

Favourite movie? Well, as long as it wasn’t a Muggle one with horrible actor ‘Leo Nardicapro’ in it...

Favourite day of the week? Fridays. How was that even a question? Fridays were his favourite thing out of _all favourites_ , without hesitation.

That being said, not all Fridays were the same. Some were without any interest and consisted of drinking tea alone in his spacious flat. The other ones, the best kind of Fridays, made him deeply happy, so much that he couldn’t think about them without biting his cheek in order to suppress a smile. Those days when Harry arrived delightfully at his door step, his body drowning in sweatshirt fabric, with sugar and eggs in both his hands. And they’d bake, and laugh, and kiss and Harry’s breath would smell like cookie dough because he wasn’t able to keep his mouth out of the recipe. Draco didn’t say it that often - he never really had a way with words - but he knew it because he’d think about those times and a mild pressure could be felt inside his chest. God, he simply _adored_ Fridays.

The grey of his eyes were lost in the book he had borrowed from Hermione a few weeks back when Harry finally got out of the shower. The water left in his messy hair dripped everywhere on Draco’s kitchen floor.

“And what recipe has my personal chef planned for today?” Harry asked as he stretched his arms, accidentally lifting his green sweatshirt and revealing his bare skin under it. 

Draco felt his body shiver and he looked away. “Blueberry treacle tart, obviously”, he carelessly replied. 

Today would be the fourth Friday they attempted to cook one properly. Three times out of three, they failed. Or rather, _Harry_ failed, because Harry was the experimented one in the situation, yet he still wasn’t good enough of a teacher to make Draco succeed in cooking a simple fucking treacle tart. But if Harry really believed Draco would simply accept defeat and move on to an easier one, he clearly didn’t know his boyfriend all that much. “I even got the ingredients ready this time.” He pointed at the pile of food beside the sink. 

Harry chuckled as he walked towards the kitchen island and sat on it. “Honestly, Draco, as much as I adore treacle tarts, and the fact that you persist to learn how to make them, I can’t go on about it forever you know? And it’s perfectly okay if we take- an easier one.” 

He shot Harry a threatening glance. “N-not that you aren’t capable, I’m sure you’re brilliant! When you practise and-and all, you know.”

“Last time you promised we’d try again, you don’t have a choice now. Don’t try me, you fuckwit, a promise is a promise.”

“Well someone’s being an arsehole today”, muttered the said ‘futwick’ under his breath. 

Draco rolled his eyes but the lopsided smile he was trying to hide was pretty obvious. He moved closer to the kitchen island and stood between his boyfriend’s legs. 

“Haven’t had the best day”, he replied almost whispering. 

Intensely green pupils found their way to Draco’s eyes. He couldn’t even formulate proper thoughts or words because his stomach was twisting and Draco wanted to die rather than acknowledge how soft he was feeling for the stupid fuckwit sitting on top of his kitchen island. 

“Why?” Harry asked him.

“Nothing. It’s all right. Just- Father, his usual bullshit phone calls.”

Harry must’ve heard the quaver in his voice while speaking because he brought his hands to Draco‘s shoulders and gently massaged them. Eyelids shut, he added this to the mental list of reasons why Fridays were his favorite. 

Neither of them were talking, nor did they need to. Quite frankly, the silence floating in the air soothed Draco better than words could. He buried his blond hair into the green sweatshirt and caught a whiff of Harry’s cedarwood and vanilla scent. And with that, his heartbeat slowed down, along with his breathing. Draco paused his racing brain and allowed himself to not think, just for a moment. He just felt so good, here in Harry’s arms, sweet fucking Merlin. Nothing in the universe mattered anymore. It was just Harry and Draco, and they were floating in a void of nothingness where feelings and emotions were no longer a concept. 

Draco suddenly got brought back to Earth by warm hands on his cheeks and a delicate pressure. He simply wanted to roll his eyes at Harry because no - Jesus Christ - no, he wasn’t going to let him _cup_ his bloody face. 

But he _didn’t_ roll his eyes, and he let him anyway, strictly because it made Harry smile a little more, and most certainly not because it made his own heart flutter like a little boy having his first kiss.

“What?” he asked, noticing Harry held his gaze on him a little too long. 

“Nothing.” Harry chuckled under his breath. “You know, Luna told me why you wanted to be able to make blueberry treacle tarts. I found it rather sweet of you.” 

_Sweet_ of him? Disgusting. Besides - argh! - Luna wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, and not Harry out of all people!

“You should consult a Healer. Or a ‘doctor’, as you so call it. Hallucinations often are a symptom of madness, you know Harry? You must’ve hallucinated it. I didn’t tell Luna anything at all.” 

“You tell Luna everything.”

Draco made a ‘pshh’ sound and rolled his eyes like it wasn’t true, but it was. He did have a soft spot for Luna Lovegood and every time they visited her, Draco was always the one pleading Harry to stay five more minutes. And then it would get so late Harry’d fall asleep on Luna’s Nargles plushes, and wake up in the morning only to realize Draco and Luna had talked all night and didn’t get a shred of sleep.

“Whatever.” Draco retorted. “She’s a pure soul. I can’t simply not protect her. Unlike you. You’re just an evil twat.” 

“Am I, now?”

“Yeah. A little”, Draco muttered.

“Really?”

“Perhaps not that much. Dunno.” 

And he sincerely smiled at him because in reality, his boyfriend really wasn’t _all_ that bad. Especially when he was lovingly gazing at him or cupping his face with his absurdly warm hand palms.

“Well, I heard from a very reliable source that I was such an ‘evil twat’ that the reason why my boyfriend wanted to learn how to cook blueberry treacle tarts was to bring me breakfast in bed.”

“Bollocks. Utter bollocks from a completely _un_ reliable source. What kind of man do you take me for, Potter? I run a billion Galleon-worth business and you’re talking to me about breakfast in bed? I’ve never even _heard_ of this concept. Is it new?” Draco said, carefully wrapping his sarcastic words around an innocent smile. “It’s a new thing, isn’t it?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Besides, really? Unreliable? Said ‘pure souls’ can’t fucking lie, Draco!” Harry replied.

They both cracked up at the same time and Harry slightly tilted in his direction as he laughed.

Draco wished the hands on his cheeks could absorb the sheer embarrassment he felt right now. The idea of breakfasts in bed had crossed his mind _once_! And he also made sure to tell Luna that it only would’ve been on extraordinarily special occasions, like - I don’t fucking know - bringing back the Quidditch World Cup or some crap. But of course, Draco’s bad luck had to make sure Luna omitted telling Harry this detail. 

A left hand gave a weak slap on his cheek, waking him brutally from his trance state. “Ow! Bloody hell, Harry.” 

His boyfriend didn’t pay attention to his remark. “Come on! Unless you’re giving up on cooking!”

“Absolutely not,” he declared with a defiant smile.

And when Harry got back down on the floor, Draco was determined to make the baking of those stupid treacle tarts go wrong again, just to make the delight of spending time with his favourite person last a little longer.


End file.
